


love, now and forever

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cabins, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Nesting, Nightmares, Rain, Recovery, Season/Series 14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 05:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15381420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: The light of Michael's Grace fades, and all Castiel hears is Dean’s paralyzing scream.





	love, now and forever

The light fades, and all Castiel hears is Dean’s paralyzing scream.

For what feels like an eternity, Castiel just kneels there, bloodied hands fisting wet grass and knees digging into mud, while Dean collapses in on himself, the absence of Grace leaving behind a broken shell of a man. At first, Castiel doesn’t register how fraught the noise is, all of his senses caught up in the diminishing bruises littering his own body and the cuts quickly knitting together across his eyes, his mouth, his ribs.

The numbness, the ringing in Castiel’s ears, the blood leaking from a split lip all dissipate within seconds—and in its wake, Dean still screams and begs for mercy, for _death_. Castiel rushes to him on unsteady legs, heart in his throat when he finally pulls Dean into his arms. Dean, soaked in blood both his own and not, flesh shredded where Michael dug his talons in too deep, glassy eyes stuck open while he shrieks.

“Hold onto me,” Castiel begs him, taking one of Dean’s broken hands into his own, struggling to fuse bone and tendon once again. Dean shakes his head, tries to push away, but Castiel holds him close. “Hold onto me, please, Dean.”

“Kill me,” Dean cries, garbled in his own blood, teeth stained red with it. The only two words he knows, and they break Castiel all the same. Broken fingers cling to Castiel like a lifeline. “Kill me, kill me, kill me—”

“Hold on,” Castiel repeats, meeting Dean’s sobs with his own hushed whispers, right into Dean’s ear. “He’s gone, Dean, just hold on.”

Dean ignores him, whether involuntary or not; whatever he’s experiencing, Castiel can’t even begin to fathom. Archangels normally leave their vessels catatonic, but Michael has never been anything but cruel, his last act of sadism leaving a good man—a righteous man—broken and clinging to life in Castiel’s arms. If Dean’s physical form looks this terrible, Castiel can’t imagine how bad the internal damage is. All he can do is cradle Dean close and do what he can to mend him, to ease his burden, and pray to whoever is listening that Dean survives long enough to get him to safety.

“Stay with me,” Castiel says, burying his face in Dean’s sweat-drenched hair. Dean hiccups into his coat and fists Castiel’s hand with all the strength he can muster, before the pain finally takes him, leaving Dean limp in his arms, but breathing. At least he’s alive, is all Castiel can think. How the rest of him has fared, Castiel is scared to find out.

-+-

Dean doesn’t wake up for three days.

Castiel spends the better part of those waking hours pacing. Occasionally, he attempts to reach Sam or Mary on the landline, or prays to Jack; all of his calls go unanswered. All he can do is pace, and sit at Dean’s bedside in this small cabin, and wait for him to open his eyes.

Where they ended up, Castiel doesn’t know. Castiel found Michael in a clearing somewhere in North Carolina, close to an overflowing dam and a river roaring loud enough to deafen the very words Michael said. The cabin has seen better days, surely, but the roof shields them from the pouring rain, and there’s a single bed with well-worn pillows and a moth-eaten quilt.

Castiel does the best he can, given the circumstances: he tries to keep Dean’s temperature down with both his Grace and wet washcloths; he keeps him warm when the day turns into night by adding more layers to the growing mound on the bed; he whispers prayers to him in a language Dean can’t understand, but with words that flow so easily off his tongue. To his grief, Dean never responds; all Castiel can do is ease his suffering, and hope that this isn’t the end. That Dean isn’t dying in this bed in the middle of nowhere.

This isn’t just a physical ache. Michael severed Dean’s soul during his departure, making sure to split it just enough to shatter upon impact. Irreparably broken, with only time to guide him back together, and even then, Castiel doesn’t know if Dean will ever recover. If Dean will ever be _Dean_ again.

All he can do is pray.

The phone rings at some point—time is a blur here, amidst the rain—and Castiel ignores it for a while, simply occupying himself with rubbing life into Dean’s knuckles. On the fourth ring, Castiel reluctantly leaves Dean’s side to find the landline across the cabin. He picks it up on the fifth ring, only to be met with Sam’s clipped tone. “Look, I don’t know who this is, but it’s gotta be important since you called a million times—"

“Sam, it’s me,” Castiel croaks. Only then does Sam stop. “I’m—We’re alive, but he’s—Dean won’t—”

“Cas, breathe,” Sam says. Softer now, but with enough force to catch Castiel’s attention. “Are you alright? Where are you?”

“I’m… I’m fine. I healed.” Castiel inhales, covering his eyes. “And I don't know. North Carolina somewhere. Our phones are broken, and I’m… Michael’s gone, Sam. Michael’s gone, and Dean won’t wake up.”

Sam doesn’t reply immediately, only agitating Castiel’s nerves further. The last few days, Castiel has had no one talk to other than himself, the rain his only company; the last thing he wants from Sam is silence. “But he’s alive?” Sam eventually asks, more brittle than Castiel has ever heard him. “Is he—He’s not dead, right? Or braindead, or—”

“I don’t know,” Castiel manages, lip between his teeth. “I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”

“We’ll come find you.” Sam mutes the receiver with his hand; faintly, Castiel hears him call out to Mary and Jack, and presumably whoever else he can fit in the car. “Where was the last place you remember seeing a sign?”

“Tapoco,” Castiel says. “There’s a dam nearby—”

Sam laughs, somewhat disheartened. “Yeah, I know it. I can be there in two days, can you—Can you stay with him until then?”

Castiel nods to himself, adding, “I’ll watch over him.”

Sam bids him goodbye with little more than a thank you, his absence leaving with it a void in the cabin. Thunder rattles the foundation, sudden in its intensity—and, in the wake, Castiel can hear Dean’s groans. At least it’s not a scream; he could go his entire lifetime without hearing that again.

Soundlessly, Castiel makes his way to the bedroom, steadying himself with his hand on the doorjamb as he peers inside; on the bed, Dean lies with his hands over his eyes, every muscle tense. “Dean,” Castiel says. Near-violently, Dean shakes his head. “Dean, it’s me, you’re—It’s Castiel.”

Dean doesn’t speak. Castiel doesn’t think he can. Instead, he mouths Castiel’s name and lowers his hands, only to reveal bloodshot eyes, scleras dyed deep red. It’s more for Castiel to heal, but he finds he can’t mind any of it; he just wishes he could do more.

Under Dean’s gaze, Castiel slips off his shoes and climbs into the bed, careful to not jostle him from the nest Castiel has built for him. “Can you see me?” Castiel asks, to which Dean nods—but just barely. “I need to finish healing you,” Castiel explains. With Dean’s permission, he cradles Dean’s cheek in his palm, the sharp pang of happiness that accompanies it almost suffocating. “Can you tell me what hurts?”

It takes some maneuvering with Dean’s sluggish limbs, but he points out the last of his ailments: left ear, voice box, both eyes, and the spot in the middle of his chest that Castiel knows he can’t fix, no matter how much he longs to. Keeping those points in mind, Castiel allows his Grace to slip free in increments. Unlike in the past, this time, Dean doesn’t jump or hiss from the initial shock, nor does he complain; he just rests there and allows Castiel to do his work, and speaks when he’s finally able, his voice shot.

“Something’s wrong with me,” are Dean’s first words, slurred as they are. His tongue refuses to cooperate, and that, only time can heal. “Don’t feel right, Cas.”

“I know,” Castiel murmurs. He allows his Grace to pull away, but keeps his hand in place, running his thumb over the curve of Dean’s cheek. “I’m sorry, I… It’s not something I can fix.”

Dean sucks in a slow, ragged breath, then exhales through his nose. Again and again, he breathes deep, lungs expanding and deflating under the blankets. “I don’t feel real,” he says, attempting to laugh. Castiel doesn’t humor him, not this time. “Gotta be a dream.”

“It’s not,” Castiel assures him. “I’m here with you.”

“Saw you before.” Dean shakes his head, refusing to look at anything but the inside of his eyelids. Castiel doesn’t blame him. “Always saw you, but you… He kept shovin’ me back. Kept lyin’, sayin’ I was better off without you. Didn’t… Didn’t wanna hurt you, ‘n now look at me.”

Wetness pools in the corner of Dean’s eye. Castiel wipes it away with his thumb, but more tears rush forth. “You’ll be alright,” Castiel says, hoping that it isn’t a lie. Deeply, he hopes Dean’s soul will survive this, along with the rest of him. “It’ll take time, but I know you, Dean. I know you’re strong enough.”

“’M not,” Dean says, turning his face away. Just watching him, Castiel wants to weep. “I’m not, I’m…” He stops, and his face crumples. “He broke me, Cas. He—”

Holding Dean doesn’t work, not this time, and part of Castiel thinks it never will again. Still, he allows Dean to grab hold of him, to drag himself up and into Castiel’s waiting embrace, where Castiel buries his fingers into Dean’s still-bloody shirt like it’s the only thing holding Dean together. Here, Dean sobs to his heart’s content, soundless but violent all the same. To Dean, the world might as well be ending again; this time, Castiel can do nothing to ease the ache. This war is internal—and this time, all Castiel can do is watch.

-+-

The rain grows to be more of an annoyance over the coming hours, the pitter patter atop the roof beginning to grate on what’s left of Castiel’s nerves. With gray skies come storms, and with that, the inability to walk to the Impala parked nearly half a mile away to scavenge for whatever canned food Dean hoards in the trunk. But he caves, eventually, and drags himself away from Dean’s bedside to trudge through the mud and refuse, soaked to the bone by the time he returns. He ends up with a few water bottles, three cans of baked beans and some soup, none of which look entirely appealing, but it’s probably all Dean can stomach given the circumstances.

Castiel finds Dean on the couch in the living room, wrapped in a blanket and stripped of all clothing save for his boxers, when he steps through the front door. He looks absolutely pitiful. Childlike, almost, if his innocence weren’t eviscerated. “Can’t stand the clothes,” Dean says, curling in on himself, until all Castiel can see is his head, propped up on bent knees. “Not even mine.”

The stove in the kitchen only has two burners and a single pot and spoon, both of which Castiel uses to prepare vegetable soup. Before Michael, Dean would have joined him in the kitchen, good-naturedly critiquing his every move to make sure he didn’t hurt himself or catch anything on fire. But now, Cas just glances over his shoulder and watches Dean stare at the rug. Occasionally, he sways and blinks, fidgeting with his blanket, like he’s trying to ground himself to reality.

Losing a soul is one thing—without a soul, the person functions essentially as they normally would, just without inhibitions—but having one fractured? Castiel can’t even begin to imagine how Dean feels, the memories he must be trying to repress. 

“You need to at least try,” Castiel says after he turns the burner off. He fishes around  every cabinet for a spoon until he finds one, and brings both the pot and utensil over. Dean takes them when offered and sets the pot in his lap, stirring the contents for a few minutes to let it cool. Castiel sits next to him, allowing Dean to rest his weight against his side. “Please. You’re… He wasn’t kind to you.”

“I know,” Dean says, shaking his head.

Just based on Dean’s wrists, Castiel can tell he lost weight while he was gone, probably intentionally on Michael’s part. Another method of torture, all while Dean felt every waking second of the pain and agony. Dean eats in silence while Castiel holds him, an arm draped around his lower back. Steadily, Dean’s skin begins to heat again, the chill fading from his bones with every bite he takes. He doesn’t manage all of it, but for now, it’s enough.

“You’re doing well,” Castiel praises him. Dean doesn’t laugh, or even chide him, and Castiel’s heart sinks. Lifting his hand, he pets through Dean’s hair before pulling him closer, hiding a kiss against his scalp. “It’ll take time.”

“I’ve been hungry before,” Dean says, aiming for flippant but falling somewhere south of that. “You don’t have to… baby me, or whatever you’re doing.”

“I’m not,” Castiel sighs. He doesn’t pull away, and Dean never quite tells him to, either.

Dean still smells like blood, a taint Castiel doesn't think will ever wash off, no matter how hard Dean scrubs. A permanent blot on his very existence, the weight of the lives Michael took always on his shoulders. “Did you… Does anyone know where we are?” he asks. Instead of leaving like Castiel would have suspected, Dean just places the pot on the floor and burrows into Castiel’s side, face hidden from Castiel’s view. “I don’t know where we are.”

“Tapoco,” Castiel says, hoping Dean will at least understand.

To his relief, Dean snorts. “Did I do a Peter Pan off the dam?”

“I think we both did,” Castiel says. He wraps Dean in his arms, until they’re almost parallel on the couch, all but Dean’s bare toes covered by the blanket, their ankles dovetailing together. “You tried to throw me into the river, and I wouldn’t let go.”

“Sounds like you,” Dean huffs. “Can I just… sleep here? Forever?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Sam and Mary and Jack are all on their way. They’ll be here by tomorrow.”

Against his chest, Dean exhales deep enough for Castiel to wonder if he’ll ever inhale again. “I hope so,” he mumbles, settles in deeper into the couch, into Castiel. “Hope so.”

-+-

The shower is barely functional at best, but they make the most of what they have. Castiel sits on the toilet lid while Dean washes off behind the flimsy curtain, scrubbing the blood off his skin with just his hands.

“Smells like a fuckin’ swamp,” Dean complains after a while, cleaning out from underneath his fingernails. He rinses his hair once more, raking his fingers through the strands, and Castiel allows himself to look just for a few seconds, to see how meticulously Dean has rid himself of every square inch of the past.

Castiel hands him a towel once Dean shuts off the water, leaving the room while he dries off and dresses himself in better clothes, clothes like _him_ and less like Michael. Dean comes out dressed in socks and sweats, with a threadbare t-shirt hastily tugged on, hanging off to one side. He shivers; Castiel longs to offer him his coat. “It’ll be dark soon,” Castiel says, more of a fact than any sort of suggestion. “There’s a fireplace.”

“It’s the middle of summer,” Dean retorts, but that doesn’t stop him from making his way to the living room to gather firewood.

Castiel takes the lighter from the kitchen and sets aflame the logs Dean piles from the basket into the chimney, bathing the darkening room in red. Dean finds three blankets in a linen closet and strips the bed of the sheets, dragging them all before the fire. It’s more of a nest than Castiel has ever seen, the floor strewn with pillows and bedding, but Dean takes comfort in it all the same, and doesn’t complain when Castiel drapes himself at Dean’s back, drawing an arm around his middle.

Logs crackle. “How do you heal a soul?” Dean asks. Castiel blinks, holds Dean tighter. “Am I gonna be this… empty forever?”

“I don’t want to give you false promises,” Castiel whispers. He touches one of Dean’s ankles with his own. “I’m… sorry. I know it’ll mend, but it could be… years, before the pieces knit together.”

Dean quiets after that, at least for a few minutes. In the interim, Castiel traces circles just beneath the hem of Dean’s shirt, where he’s warm, vulnerable. “I’m scared,” Dean admits. “I never should’ve said yes, Cas. We could’ve found another way, but I had to go and fuck it up—”

“Dean.”

In his arms, Dean stiffens, clearly expecting to be scolded. Castiel just brushes his nose against the nape of Dean’s neck, until he settles again. But out of the corner of Castiel’s eye, within sight of his Grace, something clicks; a sliver of gold melds together with nothing more than a touch, soothing itself as two fractions join into a whole. This is what Dean needs. As much as it may feel like being coddled or pitied, the only cure for a broken soul is affection, adoration—love. Love by someone who can love in return.

“He’s gone now,” Castiel says, nudging closer. Impossibly, Dean opens to him, allowing Castiel into his space to the point where he can’t discern one body from another. Relief, Castiel recognizes; now if only Dean could begin to believe that he was safe. “You’re safe here, with me.”

A sigh, steady as the rain. “He showed me… things, Cas. Shit like this, all the time, and he’d rip me out of each one just to show me what he was doing. He kept… playing with me. Like this was some game, like he can play with emotions—”

Castiel silences him with a kiss to his neck, trailing up to the bolt of his jaw. “Ask me something my dream-self wouldn’t know,” he says. Dean’s trembling hand covers his own, fingers threading through the gaps. “Something my dream-self wouldn’t do.”

“You never questioned it,” Dean says, hushed. “I lived this fantasy. I saw how it ended, and I didn’t… It didn’t end up like this. You didn't…” _Love me_ , Castiel hears, soundless yet thick in the air.

“I’ll stay,” is all Castiel says in reply.

Somehow, Dean softens even further, like the fight has left his body. Along with it, though, comes guilt, and the knowledge that this is what Dean has always wanted, but it’s always been the one thing Castiel could never give him. Life always got in the way, and Castiel could never once even consider the fact that this was where he belonged—this is where he belongs, where he’s always been wanted. Not just needed, but… wanted.

In the white noise of the rain, Castiel kisses apologies into Dean’s skin and tightens his grip on Dean’s hand, until he slackens—until he can rest.

-+-

It’s not the noise that wakes Castiel, but the complete and utter absence of it that startles him from his slumber. Sometime during the night, the rain finally quieted to a drizzle, and the fire died down enough to smolder in the hearth. But with it, brings an uneasy sense of dread, like shadows looming in the corners, hands waiting to drag them away into the abyss. Castiel lies there for minutes at a time, listening to Dean’s increasingly shallow breathing.

And then Dean begins to speak.

It’s not anything intelligible at first, just noises. His foot twitches where it’s trapped between Castiel’s, and his body jerks, lost in the throes of REM. Castiel has happened upon Dean asleep multiple times in the past, but never this deep, where Castiel couldn’t even retrieve him if he tried.

Nightmares linger—this, Castiel knows.

“Don’t hurt,” Dean mutters, slurred, shaking his head. Try as he might, Castiel can’t hold him still, Dean’s near-constant twitches turning violent. “Don't hurt,” he repeats to no one. Castiel sits up, just enough to keep Dean from thrashing into him. All he can do is cover Dean’s shoulder and wait for it to stop, to let the dream run its course; waking Dean would be more disorienting than what he’s experiencing. “Cas, don’t hurt.”

Castiel closes his eyes, sucks in a breath. Out of all the virtues, Castiel has never been one for patience, and waiting for Dean’s subconscious to let go terrifies him more than the dream itself. Most of what Dean says, Castiel can’t understand; the words that do make it through, though, Castiel wishes he could never hear again.

“Please,” Dean begs, burrowing his face into the blankets, near-suffocating. “Please, sorry, I won’t—stop, please—I said—”

Touching Dean doesn’t help, though Castiel wishes it did. All he can manage is to pet Dean’s hair and whisper close to his ear, hoping the prayers mean something. Nothing works, though, and Dean falls deeper, until he falls flat on his back, eyes open yet fixed on nothing—and he begs. “Let go— _let go of_ —You can’t—You promised—Not him— _You promised, please_ —”

“Dean,” Castiel finds himself saying, not of his own volition. His heart aches just from watching, from having to witness Dean’s pleas, previously fallen on deaf ears, but now audible and painfully real.

“Stop,” Dean cries, reaching out—for what, Castiel can’t say. A hand fists Castiel’s lapel, knuckles blanched. “Stop, stop, stop, _stop_ , _stop_ —”

Whatever reserve Castiel had left disappears the minute he drags Dean into his arms. “Dean,” Castiel says, chanting his name every time he speaks. Dean doesn’t fight him so much as attempt to rip his clothes apart, unconsciously tearing at whatever he can find: Castiel’s coat, his pant leg, his undershirt. All the while, Castiel bears it and prays into Dean’s skin, lips mouthing Enochian into his throat or against this ear.

Dean’s gasp startles Castiel’s heart; the subsequent silence, even more so. “Sorry,” Dean says, more even now but every bit as distressed. Awake—Dean is awake. “Sorry, sorry, sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Castiel shushes. He runs a hand through Dean’s hair, holding him close, allowing Dean to breathe into his coat. Familiarity has always worked to settle Castiel’s nerves; maybe it works for Dean, too. “He’s not here. He’s not real.”

Still, Dean apologizes, beginning to tremble as he does so, and Castiel holds him through it. In, out, again, and again, he breathes, until his heart pounds a sustained rhythm against Castiel’s chest, his tremors lessening. “He should’ve just killed me,” Dean laughs, hollow. Castiel takes a moment to be grateful that he can’t see the despair on Dean’s face, and that Dean can’t see his own. “Look at me, I’m… I’m really broken this time. He really did it.”

That, Castiel can’t deny. What Michael did to Dean was beyond damaging a soul—Michael shattered him. Yet Dean goes on, as well as he can, save for the nightmares. “Nothing is ever truly broken,” Castiel says, aiming for hopeful. “No matter how damaged you how or you think you may be, your family will be here to help you, however we can.”

Dean sniffles, hiding his face in Castiel’s throat. “What if it can’t?” he asks, sincere enough to break Castiel’s heart. “What if this is how I’m gonna be forever? I don’t wanna… I can’t go on like this, Cas, I’m just… I’m everything I never wanted to be.”

All Castiel can do is exhale and hold Dean closer, soothing his hands down Dean’s spine. Everything Castiel has worked for, everything Castiel has done to keep Dean safe, and it’s all come to this—Dean said yes, and lies in pieces in his arms, and Castiel doesn’t know how to fix it. “I wish I could say it gets better,” he whispers. “But if you need anyone… I’ll be here. I’m not leaving you, not until you tell me to go.”

Dean huffs, a sound Castiel could easily equate to laughter if he tried. “Good thing I don’t want you to go, then.”

Castiel smiles into Dean’s hair. “Then I’ll stay.”

-+-

Sun peeks through the drizzle incrementally come morning, the entirety of the forest blanketed in fog. Castiel refuses to move for a long few hours, content to let Dean sleep fitfully in his arms. Sometimes, he can hear Dean’s stomach protest, but he still sleeps on, until light finally breaches the windows, for the first time in days. How long it’ll last, Castiel doesn’t know; for now, he’ll certainly accept it.

Dean awakens for good sometime the clouds begin to gather again, none too happily either. “Wish we had some toast,” he groans, wiping his eyes. Castiel slackens his hold enough for Dean to free himself, disappearing from the nest to the bathroom down the hall. In Dean’s absence, Castiel clutches the blanket where Dean once rested, flexing his fingers into the warmth left behind.

Sam calls a few minutes into Dean’s shower, the house phone startling Castiel begrudgingly out of the nest and into the kitchen. “We’re about an hour out,” he says by way of hello, his concern palpable. “How are you guys holding up?”

Briefly, Castiel glances around the hall before padding his way to the kitchen island. He hopes Sam and company are bringing food; it’s a better alternative than Dean eating breakfast out of a can again. “We’re… fine, for the most part,” Castiel sighs, elbows on the countertop, one hand in his hair. “He’s more scared than anything. What Michael did to him… I don’t even know how to explain it, but the Dean you know is still in there. He’s—”

“I know,” Sam says. He’d know, maybe better than anyone, Castiel realizes. “I’m just glad he’s back, Cas. And whatever’s going on in his head, we’ll get through it, like we always do.”

 _It’s not that simple_ , Castiel thinks. Souls aren’t fabric, able to be sewn together with little more than thread—souls are glass, the pieces uncountable and jagged, and even when they’re placed together, the end result is always tarnished, a shadow of what it once was. Dean is different, though. The brightest soul Castiel ever laid witness to, torn and shredded—but it’s regrowing, slow as it is. And Castiel intends to watch every second of it.

“Please bring food,” is Castiel’s only reply, a hand over his eyes. “I can’t feed him the rations he keeps in the trunk.”

Sam mock-gags; if only Castiel could laugh anymore. “I have no idea how long that stuff’s been in there.”

Castiel shakes his head. “It was probably a good idea at the time, but I fear for his health.”

“We’ll stop at McDonald’s if we can find one,” Say says. “Much healthier.”

 _Funny_ , Castiel considers. “We’re not far from the dam. I’ll see you soon.”

Dean returns just as Castiel hangs up the receiver, toweling his hair dry; red stains his cheeks from the water, all the way down to his chest. He’s warm, green eyes brighter than yesterday; Castiel’s heart beckons him forward and urges him to take Dean into his arms again. “Sammy call?” he asks, folding the towel and placing it atop the island.

“He’s bringing food,” Castiel confirms. “They’ll be here within the hour, at the earliest.”

Tension bleeds from Dean’s shoulders incrementally, eyelids slipping shut. “Thank God,” he says, palming his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to haul ass more than I do now.”

Castiel shrugs, rounding the island. “This place isn’t so bad,” he hums. “It’s better than sleeping in the car for two days.”

Dean snorts, ducking his head. “Better for my back, too. Hey.” He stops, and for several moments, solely rubs the back of his neck. The tips of his ears redden, embarrassment tinging his cheeks. “I just… thanks. For sticking with me, while I’m…”

“I told you.” Lifting his hand, Castiel fits Dean’s cheek into his palm, reveling when Dean leans into him, shame foregone for comfort. Castiel steps closer, heart in his throat; another beat, and he dares to come closer still. “I won’t leave you. I saved your soul once, and I intend to do whatever is in my power to do so again.”

For a while, all Dean does is breathe; if Castiel wanted, he could lean forward and let their foreheads touch, fit their lips together, but only if Dean wants this too. Even if Dean said no, Castiel would be content with just being close to him.

But Dean leans in instead, hands to Castiel’s waist—and Castiel lets him in, sighing with happiness when Dean finally kisses him, more tender than Castiel ever imagined. Sweet, almost shy in his touch. Regardless, Castiel holds him and returns the kiss, tasting the toothpaste on Dean’s tongue; his Grace reaches out almost out of reflex, seeking entrance to the tattered remnants of Dean’s soul, and Dean accepts him with little hesitance. Here, Castiel can do very little aside from quelling the ache, but he still tries, even when Dean’s soul rallies to greets him, shards and all.

“Don’t stop,” Dean pants, pulling Castiel tighter. “I can feel it—Feel you—”

Castiel surges forward, both hands to Dean’s jaw. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

Softened by use, the nest is even more comfortable in the daylight when Castiel falls into it, Dean following with reserved enthusiasm. Fear holds him back, Castiel knows, and Castiel can only do so much to comfort him. For now, though, he just drags Dean under the blankets and steals another kiss from his lips in the shade.

Here, Castiel’s entire existence boils down to Dean’s hands on him, lips sliding sweetly against his own, and Dean’s soul tugging at his Grace. Castiel’s stomach clenches with every kiss, each shared breath; eventually, Dean rolls them over and settles himself atop Castiel, a steady presence Castiel can cling to. “Don’t let go,” Dean begs, pulling away. Gently, Castiel thumbs away the wetness welling in Dean’s eyes, and Dean lowers his head, hiding his face. “Why do you have to do this?”

“Do what?” Castiel asks. He slips a hand underneath Dean’s shirt, tracing along the curve of his spine, and Dean melts against him, his breath little more than a brittle sigh. “Dean…”

“Look at me like you do,” Dean whispers. “Love me like…”

“I’ve always loved you.” Castiel urges Dean to look at him, wet eyes and all. Caught in the sight, Castiel steals another kiss, tasting the salt of Dean’s tears on his tongue. “No matter how broken you are, I’ll always love you.”

Dean’s sob, soundless as it is, both terrifies and elates Castiel to his core. Yet, holding him has never been easier; Castiel embraces him for as long as he can, whispering praises into Dean’s ear along the way.

“You’re so stupid,” Dean laughs, a bit watery, but laughter nonetheless. “You’re just gonna get hurt.”

Castiel kisses his cheek, the tip of his nose. “Then I’ll wear the scars.”

“God.” Dean leans up, both hands to Castiel’s cheeks, and Castiel finds himself looking up into the eyes of someone who loves him, unconditional and everything he has always desired, always dreamt of. “Good think we’re in this together, then.”

A series of knocks on the front door interrupts their next kiss, much to Castiel’s dismay. Dean, however, sits up and looks over the arm of the couch; tears still run down his face, unobserved. “Sam,” Mary calls out, just as Dean tears himself from Castiel’s side and launches himself into his mother’s arms. Sam and Jack rush in seconds later, each taking turns with their embraces and reassurances; Dean never stops crying.

Sitting up, Castiel watches from the nest. His hair is probably a mess, and he knows he’s flushed beneath his shirt collar, but he still can’t stop the joy that spreads through him, from seeing Dean with his family, and from knowing how he feels. The difference between losing a soul and having it broken, Castiel thinks, is that with the latter, it can always be mended, like gold and clay. Slowly, Castiel watches the pieces begin to fit themselves together again.

All at once, Castiel knows where he belongs—with Dean at his side, and with Dean in his heart. And he knows, with all of him, that Dean feels the same as well.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been having a major writers block lately and writing this was a pain in the neck, but I finally finished it! Thanks to Bexy for betaing and helping whip it into shape as normal <3
> 
> Title is from the Enya song, "Isobella".
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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